Page 41 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

T he sun bleeds gold and amber across the horizon as we crest the final slope to Bradley's thinking spot.

I stop in my tracks, breath catching in my throat at the sheer magnificence of it all.

The valley stretches out before us, bathed in that magical light that only exists for a few precious minutes each day, when the world seems to pause between what was and what will be.

I've seen Montana sunsets before, but never from this vantage point, never with this man standing beside me.

"Bradley," I whisper, “It’s...”

He steps behind me, arms encircling my waist as he pulls me back against his chest. "Worth the hike?" His voice is a warm rumble against my ear that sends shivers down my spine.

"It's incredible." I lean into him, soaking in his warmth, the solid strength of him anchoring me as I drink in the landscape.

Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks tinged rose-gold, while the valley below darkens to purple shadows.

The vastness of it makes me feel small and insignificant all at once.

"I have something to show you," he says, stepping back and taking my hand.

He leads me around the wooden bench where we'd sat before, past a cluster of pines. And there, tucked between the trees, partially hidden from view, sits a canvas tent. Beside it, spread across the ground, are several thick blankets that look impossibly soft with a picnic basket at the edge.

"You did all this?" I ask, turning to him with wide eyes.

His mouth quirks in that half-smile that never fails to make my heart stutter. "Had some help from Ruthie with the food," he admits, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "But yeah, set it all up this afternoon while you were changing."

The realization that while I was switching into jeans and my comfiest t-shirt, he was here creating this moment for us hits me square in the chest. He did this, wanted to make this special.

"When did you even have time?" I marvel, stepping closer to examine his handiwork.

The blankets are arranged in layers. The tent, though simple, is perfectly positioned to block the wind while still allowing a view of the stars once night falls.

The picnic basket, when I peek inside, reveals carefully wrapped sandwiches, sliced fruit, and two thermoses that I'm willing to bet contain hot chocolate.

"I work fast when motivated."

Spinning back to face him, I roll onto my toes and press a quick kiss to his lips. "Thank you."

“Anything for you, sunshine.”

Together, we make our way to the bench to watch the sunset.

The wood is still warm from the day's heat as we settle onto it with our bodies angled toward each other.

This bench represents more than just a place to sit—it's where Bradley chose to reveal parts of himself he keeps hidden from the world.

Where he told me about his deepest vulnerabilities.

"It's so peaceful," I murmur, leaning against his shoulder. "I can see why you come here to think."

Bradley's thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, each movement sending tiny sparks up my arm. "Sometimes it's not about thinking," he says quietly. "Sometimes it's about finally shutting up all the noise in my head. Just being still."

I understand that better than he knows—the constant internal chatter, the endless loop of worries and regrets and what-ifs that can drive a person to seek escape any way they can. For Bradley, it was this place. For me, it was a bottle.

The thought snags in my mind, pulling at threads I've been carefully containing for so long.

I came here tonight ready to give myself to him completely.

Not just my body, but all the parts of me I keep hidden, all the truths I've been too afraid to speak aloud.

He deserves that honesty. Deserves to know exactly who he's holding in his arms.

My fingers tighten around his, gathering courage from his solid presence beside me. The sun touches the horizon now, its final light spilling across the landscape like liquid fire. It's beautiful and terrifying, just like what I'm about to do.

Taking a deep breath, I turn to face the man who's somehow crashed through all my carefully constructed walls.

"Bradley," I begin, my voice steadier than I expected. "There's something I need to tell you."

I've rehearsed this confession a hundred times in my head, but now that the moment is here, with his eyes fixed on mine and the sky darkening around us, I falter. Seven months sober, and I still haven't mastered the art of being vulnerable without liquid courage.

"I lost my parents when I was twenty-three," I finally say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. "Car accident. Black ice on a bridge."

Bradley squeezes my hand but he doesn't speak, doesn't offer empty platitudes. Just waits.

"It was sudden. One day they were there, arguing about whether to repaint the kitchen, and the next..." I swallow hard. "The next, I was identifying their bodies and trying to figure out how to pay for two funerals."

My free hand worries the fabric of my shirt, twisting and untwisting until I force myself to stop.

"They left behind more debt than memories.

The house was mortgaged to the hilt. Dad had maxed out credit cards I didn't even know existed.

Mom's medical bills from a surgery the year before were still unpaid. "

I stare out at the valley, now bathed in twilight's deep purple. It's easier somehow, to speak these truths to the darkening sky rather than directly to Bradley's face.

"I had a decent job in marketing. Nothing spectacular, but enough to cover my own rent, my student loans. Suddenly I was drowning in their debt too." My laugh sounds hollow even to my own ears. "The bank took the house. I sold most of their things. And still, it wasn't enough."

Bradley shifts beside me, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of my hand. The simple touch anchors me to the present even as my mind drifts back to those dark days.

"I'd always been a social drinker. Nothing excessive, just happy hours with coworkers, a glass of wine with dinner. But after..." I hesitate, the memory still raw despite the years that have passed. "After they died, one drink became two. Then three. Then I stopped counting."

I can feel Bradley's eyes on me and when I dare a glance at him, there's no judgment in his gaze, only a quiet attentiveness that gives me the courage to continue.

"At first, I only drank with friends. Then I started drinking alone in my apartment.

A glass of wine while paying bills turned into a bottle.

Then it was vodka because it was more efficient.

" My voice drops lower, shame coloring the edges of my words.

"I started showing up late to work. Missed deadlines.

Got written up once, twice. Then my friends stopped calling. "

My jeans suddenly feel too tight, the bench too hard beneath me. I shift, trying to find comfort where there is none.

"I told myself I had it under control. That I deserved a break, an escape, after everything I'd been through." The laugh that escapes me is bitter and broken. "That's what addicts always say, right? That they can stop anytime they want to?"

Bradley's hand tightens around mine, a silent reassurance that he's still here, still listening. I take a deep breath, gathering my resolve for the hardest part of my story.

"It was raining," I whisper, closing my eyes against the memory that still haunts my dreams. "Not a downpour, just a steady drizzle. The kind that makes the roads slick but doesn't seem dangerous enough to worry about."

My heart pounds against my ribs, the familiar guilt rising like bile in my throat. I force myself to continue.

"I'd been at a bar. Had too many drinks, knew I shouldn't drive, but my apartment was only ten minutes away." I open my eyes but see only the past. "I wasn't speeding, wasn't texting, just drunk enough to delay braking when a car pulled out from a side street."

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, hot and insistent. I don't try to hide them.

"There was this horrible sound—metal on metal, glass shattering.

The airbag deployed and knocked the wind out of me.

" My breath comes faster now, the memory so vivid I can almost smell the burnt rubber, taste the copper of blood in my mouth.

"When everything stopped moving, I looked over and saw the other car.

The driver was slumped against the steering wheel. "

Bradley's arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his side. I lean into him, drawing strength from his solid presence.

"He lived," I say quickly, needing to get to that part. "Broken ribs, concussion, fractured collarbone. But he lived. I could have killed him, Bradley. Because I was too selfish, too wrapped up in my own pain to call a cab."

The tears flow freely now, tracking hot paths down my cheeks. Bradley's hand comes up to brush them away, his touch impossibly gentle.

"The police came. I failed the breathalyzer, obviously. Spent the night in jail." I shake my head, still amazed at what happened next. "The victim's family could have pushed for maximum charges. The prosecutor was ready to make an example of me. But instead..."

I look up at Bradley, needing him to understand this part. "Instead, they asked the judge for leniency. Said ruining another life wouldn't help anyone heal. The judge sentenced me to community service and mandatory AA meetings instead of jail time."

The memory of that mercy still brings me to my knees some days. I didn't deserve their compassion, but they gave it anyway.

"Those meetings saved my life," I admit. After a long pause, I take a steadying breath and continue. "I wanted to be honest with you, the way you were with me. Even if it changes how you see me."

The fear rises again—that he'll pull away, that the desire in his eyes will be replaced with disgust. I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction, for the inevitable shift that comes when people learn the ugliest parts of my truth.

But he doesn't hesitate. He moves closer, taking both my hands firmly in his. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

The simplicity of his response loosens the knot of anxiety I've been carrying since we planned this trip.

"You're the strongest person I know," he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "What happened was terrible, but what you did after? Getting sober, rebuilding your life? That takes courage most people will never understand."

A sob catches in my throat, not from sadness but from the overwhelming relief of being seen, truly seen, and not found wanting.

"I'm not perfect," I whisper. "I still struggle. Some days are harder than others."

"Who the hell wants perfect?" Bradley's voice is rough with emotion. "I want real. I want you, sunshine. All of you. The good parts, the messy parts, all of it."

He releases my hands to frame my face, thumbs gently wiping away the tears on my cheeks. "Your past doesn't scare me off. If anything, knowing what you've overcome just makes me..." He pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. "It makes me admire you even more."

I lean into his touch, overwhelmed by the acceptance I find in his eyes. Where I expected judgment, I find understanding. Where I feared rejection, I find something that looks dangerously close to acceptance.

"Bradley," I whisper, his name a prayer on my lips.

"I'm right here, sunshine," he murmurs. "And I'm not going anywhere."

In the gathering darkness, with stars beginning to emerge overhead and the valley spread out below us, I feel something settle inside me—a piece falling into place I didn't know was missing.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, the future doesn't terrify me.

Because whatever comes next, I won't face it alone.